


Addict With A Pen

by homoromanticholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sherlock is sad, Twenty One Pilots - Addict With A Pen, and lonely, feel bad for sherlock, it's just angst, this is a songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:54:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homoromanticholmes/pseuds/homoromanticholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty One Pilots - Addict With A Pen</p>
<p>This is just a TJLC perspective on season's 1-3 and slight reference to TAB as well. </p>
<p>Basically Sherlock is sad and loves John but he doesn't know. </p>
<p>//and never will.//</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addict With A Pen

_ “Hello. We haven’t talked in quite some time. I know, I haven’t been the best, of sons. Hello.” _

 

Sherlock laid on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin. He’d been laying like this for 6 hours now. When John came home from the hospital he wasn’t surprised to see the man in this state. It was common for him to fall into his mind for hours. John couldn’t even guess at what it was he did in there. It was Sherlock, nobody could guess at what the man was thinking. Ever. He would have been shocked to hear that Sherlock was in fact laying there think about him. 

 

He ignored the man on the sofa and continued on with his normal routine. Shower, make tea, drink tea, read, sleep. It took three hours to get to the fourth and Sherlock was still lying where he had been. 

 

_ “I've been traveling in the deserts of my mind, and I, haven't found a drop, of life. I haven’t found a drop, of you. I haven't found a drop, I haven't found a drop, of water.” _

 

Sherlock was constantly getting lost in his mind palace. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish reality from fiction after long terms of being in his head. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for exactly ten minutes before turning and looking at John who was sitting in his chair reading. 

 

John. John Hamish Watson.

 

_ “Water.” _

 

The loyal soldier, the kind hearted Doctor, the first to care for the “sociopathic” detective. Over the last year Sherlock could feel the sentiment growing in his stomach. John wasn't as disposable as the rest. He was different, he was...John. The Work and any number of drugs would never reach the feeling he had when he was with John. Simple, yet complex. John was like no other. Sherlock could barely fathom the pitiful, simple girls he entertained himself with. More than anything though, he envied them.  

 

_ “I try desperately to run through the sand as I hold the water in the palm of my hand. Cause it's all that have and it's all that I need and the waves of the water mean nothing to me. But I try my best and all that I can, to hold tightly onto what's left in my hand. But no matter how, how tightly I will strain the sand will slow me down and the water will drain.” _

 

Sherlock stares out the window. Violin in hand, trying to find a sound that can portray how much he cares for the man he shares a flat with. His phone makes an obscene sound and he clinches his jaw when he feels John's gaze on him. The woman is different, not in the way John is though. She's a challenge, not a gift. She's a puzzle, a customer.The woman who beat him. 

 

Sherlock sets down the violin and turns to look at his flatmate and friend. He looks back down at his paper and Sherlock takes a moment to study the way the top of his head looks. John Watson is beautiful in the most imperfect way. 

 

_ “I'm just being dramatic, in fact I'm only at it again as an addict with a pen. Who's addict dead to the wind. As it blows me back and forth. Mindless, spineless, and pretend. Of course I'll be here again. See you tomorrow. But it's the end of today.”  _

 

Sherlock bites his lip and stares down at his flat mate, his best friend, his John.  _ It's a magic trick _ . He blinks. Once. Twice. This is for John, he has to protect John. The smell of blood coming from the body behind him is beginning to swirl around him. He swallows as he hangs up. One step. This is a ruse of course but, what will John think? What will the man do? And Sherlock falls. 

 

_ “End of my ways. As a walking denial, my trial was filed as a crazy suicidal head case. But you specialize in dying, you hear me screaming father. And I'm lying here just crying. So wash me with your water. Water.”  _

 

Mary is different from the rest of John's toys. She's intelligent, witty, and strange yet normal all at once. Sherlock sucks in his breath as she turns around, gun in hand. He should have known. He should have saved John. The pain rips through his body as the bullet pierces his skin. John, he just wanted to be there for you. The numbness of what can only be death starts up from his toes enclosing around his thighs. It's tendrils wrap around bone and through his chest. Up to a heart barely hanging on.

 

_ “Water.” _

 

John. What will happen if he leaves John? He already grieved his friend once and what about Mary? Sherlock couldn't just leave him with that liar. The cold numbness jumps back from the heart they were pursuing. They hiss out in frustration. John. He can't leave John. Not again.  

 

His heart gives a confident thump, pushing away the cold, bringing in what Sherlock needs. What he has always needed. John Watson. The chill of death recedes with a gulp of air. Sherlock needs John. Breath John, Taste John. Love. John. Sherlock’s heart gives into a steady beat and all attempts to chill him are gone. 

 

_ “Hello. We haven't talked in quite sometime. I know, I haven't been the best of sons.” _

 

Sherlock swallows down the pain that emerges when he moves. Sweat begins to bead at his forehead, the stress of moving is hard but, he can't leave John in the dark. He needs to know who his wife is. John deserves to know. 

 

Mary shoots the coin mid air, John loses all trust.

 

The look on John's face is horrible. He was lied to by someone he loves. Loved? Sherlock wants to kiss the look from his face but knows the chance of that is close to impossible. Mary is crying, Sherlock wants to. 

 

_ “I've been traveling in the desert of my mind. And I haven't found a drop of life.” _

 

Magnussen’s smile was grimy. Disgusting. He treated everyone around him like dirt. John, John doesn't deserve that. Sherlock wished away the feel of sentiment welling up in his chest forming it  into anger. He kept his face blank as he pulled the trigger of John's gun. 

 

Mycroft bit his lip from up in his helicopter. Sherlock, if only you could see yourself. What have you done, what have you done.

 

_ “I haven’t found a drop, of you.” _

 

Sherlock makes his way to John. This is his last chance, his only chance, to tell him. He licks his lips and begins the speech he’s rehearsed 10 times. 

 

John Hamish Watson…

 

He can’t. It hurts to much, he can’t do this. Not now not ever.

 

“Sherlock is actually a girls name.”

 

Never.

 

_ “I haven’t found a drop” _

 

He looks out the window of the plane.John is slowly falling away. Mary hugs him. Sherlock bites his lip as he takes out the drugs kept in his coat’s pocket. He readies a needle and takes one last chance to look at John’s blog. A Strange Meeting. Sherlock looks out the window and whispers a final, “Goodbye, John.”

 

_ “I haven’t found a drop” _

 

The drug induced dream that follows is painful and irritating. Dreaming wasn’t supposed to have occurred. Where can a drug addict get a good overdose suicide? Sherlock awoke to John and Mycroft. Mary sat to the side as well. Mary. Mary Fucking Watson. Sherlock smiled at John, still higher than the clouds. Sherlock knew deep down. He could feel it. Death would be better than this pain any day. 

 

_ “Of Water.” _

 

A life of pain and want. A life without love because the one you love wants another. A life not worth living. Sherlock continues though. In the end he believes he deserves this. He must have done something to deserve all this pain. Suicide would be an escape. He felt as though punishment is what he deserved. So he stayed. 

  
Alone. 


End file.
